Epiphany's Wind
by Servant of Fire
Summary: The conclusion of the Epiphany Trilogy. Sherlock has at last returned, but is now battling an abnormally severe case of PTSD. Picking up on this rather early, Sergeant Donovan begins to play on his condition, for personal reasons. Mycroft and John begin to intervene, only to realize a terrible truth. A truth only Sherlock Holmes can save them from...
1. Prolouge

**Epiphany's Wind~**

**Author's Note: This is the very last of what I personally call the Epiphany Triune. It might help to have read "Epiphany's Child" and "Epiphany's Scourge" (and in that order) first to understand this better. However, this story is pretty straight forward on it's own,and could almost stand alone.**

**For the One Who brings life to a full circle,and gives meaning to every thing, even that which causes pain~ With love~**

**Prolouge~**

_"I've found him."John says into the receiver._

_His breath billows back on him, like fog from the sea. Night in the winter London gathers about him, like the sewing up of a bride's white skirts. He feels hollow, and the wind howls,and the call box behind them sings with the voices of the murdered, that linger in Sherlock's mind._

_"Very good," Mycroft's voice can be heard saying on speaker phone. "Now if you would be so kind as to tend to him."_

_"Shouldn't I take him to a hospital?Or some of your people, maybe?"_

_"I trust your abilities as his physician, Doctor Watson, above those the primitives named gods of ancient medicine..."_

_John was floored by this remark, because Mycroft did not give compliments. It was a fact, as cold as the winter gathering about them. _

_"Alright."_

_They hang up._

_Sherlock mutters from the floor:_

_"I don't really know why he's meddling...it's only in my mind. I am perfectly capable of organizing my own thoughts; I'm not a child!"_

_But curled up in a ball on the floor of a call box, a hoodie pulled low over his brow, dirty jeans,and half gloves,and an over-sized shirt, he really did look like one. Clothes chosen to look the exact opposite of those Sherlock Holmes, (who was still dead as far as England was concerned), would wear._

_John kneels beside Sherlock, "PTSD is more than just jumbled thoughts, Sherlock. A LOT more. And if anybody would know that, it would be me..."_

_Sherlock is looking at John now with those intense silver-green eyes that are blazing pain, colors turning in his face, like comets made to halt their falling._

_"Yes...I'm sorry..."_

_"I had PTSD before you came along; it's not your fault. Really, none of this was. Stop apologizing!"_

_Sherlock swallows,and John lays a hand on one of his hunched shoulders._

_"Are you going to let me have a look at the wound that's broken open again?"_

_"Are we going to do it here?"_

_His voice sounded almost scared._

_"No ,you git, it's too cold for you to take your shirt off out here. We're going home..."_

_John sighs. _

_It had been something as minute as a trolley horn,and Sherlock had bolted, and thus reopened a wound._

_PTSD to the nth degree. Even John's case wasn't this bad,and he'd been in Afghanistan!_

_If one good thing came out of this, he thought, atleast he knew exactly what to do to help him._  
_He scooped him up, eased him to his feet, pressed a palm into the laceration across his chest, to staunch the blood._

_"Close your eyes."_

_"What?!"_

_"I'll lead you, just, close 'em."_

_Sherlock swallowed._

_"Trust me,...it helped me. If I could just tune it all out for a minute,just not see all the moving cars,and the perfectly normal,ok people, for just one BLOODY minute, I would be ok..."_

_Sherlock nods,and closes his eyes,and lets John lead him ,like a blind beggar through the winding streets..._


	2. Chapter 1: Welcome Home

**Chapter 1~ Welcome Home**

It had taken being given his own title in the British Government as "Detective Consulting" ,or "D.C. Holmes", before New Scotland Yard had been convinced it was safe to work with Sherlock again.

It had been Mycroft's doing, as he had had a personal meeting with fellow officials, discussing his brothers status in government, after his efforts during what was being known as "The Spider Infestation".

There had been no ceremony. John had joked that this was the closest thing to knighthood Sherlock would ever come.

And then Mycroft went to New Scotland Yard himself, brother in tow, and confronted the Chief Superintendent himself.

Had informed him that his officers would be allowed to work with Sherlock as an _extreme privilege _of superiors in the British government, only under certain circumstances, and , as Sherlock had refused an official salary, he was to be properly paid, at least the rate of any other Detective Inspector, when he did assist the police.

The Chief Superintendent had been utterly floored,

"You can vouch for this man? He's twice the fraud he was before ,now that he somehow faked his own death!" he had gasped.

"He is an agent of the British government. Which,by the way, is confidential information. His 'death' was not fraudulent, it was operational, and I myself assisted in it."Mycroft had said, eyes gone snake-cold.

"And unless you wish to experience an extended holiday in Chernobyl, I suggest you obey my orders, word for word..."

"How do I know that you really are who you say you are?"

Mycroft didn't have to say anything else, because a SWAT team was suddenly in the room, if only just for show.

Sherlock was silent the entire time.

"He's putting me off, if I'm being forced to allow him to work with my force, shouldn't he be at least constrained to speak to me one on one...?"

"If he chooses not to ,then ,no...He doesn't work for you ;he works for me." Mycroft said ,coldly. "Come along, brother mine."

"Och, he's your brother! Well that's just great-I!"

"Don't speak again. I can have you removed for said Chernobyl holiday in this very moment, and have you on a plane on the way within the hour."

This shut the Chief up.

"One more thing...Sherlock will work with only the Detective Inspector he chooses...And who will that be, brother dear?"

"Lestrade , of course." Sherlock said, speaking at last.

"The same bloody idiot as got us in the mess before?!" the Chief howled.

"And John Watson, my assistant, same as before..."Sherlock said quietly to his brother, ignoring the Chief.

"Any other specifications?" asked Mycroft, grinning from ear to ear.

" I can smoke at the crime scenes?"

"Out of the question."

"I can keep the bodies for experimentation?"

"Unbecoming of your office, brother dear."

"I am never constrained to work with Dimmock again?"

"Reasonable..."

"That ridiculous hat is against dress code?"

"Alright, now we're being silly, aren't we?"

"I really can't think of anything else that needs to be specified. Just Lestrade, and Doctor Watson. Please, thank you, that is all..."

Tired and bored, Sherlock turned on his heel, and left the room, long dark coat swishing behind him.

John was waiting outside, leaning against a light pole, arms folded against the chill of the settling winter, frost hanging in isolated shapes on the edges of the leather jacket he was wearing.

"Welcome home..." he said, grinning from ear to ear.

Sherlock smiled, drawing close.

"I believe that is 'Welcome home, sir'."

"Oh ,this title hasn't gone to your head at all, has it?" John laughed, leaning his head back, and studying Sherlock intently.

"Yes, Welcome Home, Detective Holmes, sir."

Sherlock laughed a deep, dark laugh.

"Are you hungry?"

"Famished."

"What's say we scare the daylight and the dark out of Angelo ,then, for old time's sakes?"

"Sounds like a plan."

John is on his feet, beaming. Suddenly, his brows crinkle, and he swallows, heavily, fists clenching and unclenching.

"What is it?" Sherlock asks, blinking in confusion.

"It's just so good to...have you back." he says, drawing a deep breath of the chilled night.


	3. Chapter 2: And Now That You're Here

**Chapter 2: And Now That You're Here~**

He'd spent the first 3 nights after his return in St. James' CCU, under the watchful eye of nurses that moon-lighted as British agents.

John was there ,as well, of course,to keep an eye out for him.

And the next couple of days he spent in a hotel, while the whole business with the Chief was sorted out.

A private meeting had been arranged with Lestrade, to inform him of the conditions of Sherlock's return.

His fame could never inflate like it once had.

He must be believed to be dead, from now until he actually breathed his last, if at all possible.

Sherlock had agreed to meet Lestrade down in the subway tunnels.

The man clung to him for dear life, until he thought he should suffocate , and apologized profusely.

"It's...alright...it's over now." Sherlock said, patting him awkwardly on the back.

John hadn't been there for that. He was at home, debriefing Mrs. Hudson.

She fainted when she got the news.

For the next few days after that, Molly Hooper had agreed to let Sherlock and John both stay in her spare bedroom. The agreement being that Sherlock ,who was all roughed up, would stay on or near the spare bed for the entirety of the next couple of days ,until he could be indiscreetly moved back into Baker Street. John would need to stay "missing" until the scenario where he was "found" could be written, rehearsed, and then performed along the Thames, (a show put on and worthy of the BAFTA) so he would kip on the floor, provided with a nice quilt bed roll thing from Molly's closet.

She was lovely company, and filled them in on everything they had missed in , for Sherlock, 2 years, and , for John, around 6 months, worth of absence.

It may as well have been Eternity, with all they had endured. But London had gone on at its own sleepless, and yet sleepy, little pace.

In that moment of their lives, Sherlock and John were wide awake to how foreign the ordinary can feel ,when one has been away suffering an ordeal, that no one else would ever know about, and no one else would ever understand.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

But the common place, had never been so out of place, as it had been, in the instance that they were standing at their own doorstep, the smell of tea, and burning biscuits, wafting outside.

"It's Christmas..."Sherlock said.

John shrugged, "You need to heal before you take any more cases..."

"No ,I mean, it is the actual day of Christmas. December 25."

John's jaw gaped," You're right ,it is."

"I suppose then I should say, Happy Belated Chanukah, as well as, Merry Christmas. It's what people do, isn't it, wish each other a wonderful holiday ,or some such?"

John used to know the answer to those sort of questions...

"I suppose..."

Sherlock drew a shaky breath.

"Are you ready?" John asked.

"Yeah." he answered wistfully, and John turned the doorknob.

"SURPRISE!"

They walked in on Mrs. Hudson,Greg, Molly, Mycroft, and his and Sherlock's parents, all preparing Christmas/homecoming dinner.

Mrs. Hudson tackled Sherlock,and held onto him for a full 10 minutes. Then his mother did the same, clutching him until he was blue in the face.

His father stood back and quietly observed. Noticing that his younger son did not look well, held his body at an odd drawn up stance, had a haunted look in his eyes...

"Merry Christmas, son..." he said, drawing close,and hugging Sherlock with a firm/gentleness that the women had not had the restraint for. Sherlock wrapped his arms awkwardly around his father, grateful beyond words for this,because the fervor of the matronly emotion had hurt him ,accidentally.

"Heard you were in the hospital?" Mr. Holmes said quietly into Sherlock's ear.

"Don't think Mum should know?" Sherlock muttered back, and then cringed at the look in his father's eyes, when blood welled up to where his hands rested on his shoulders.

"Dear God, boy, what happened to you?!" he hissed ,harshly.

Mycroft came up to John, and said softly, " I believe my father, my brother, and I, should take a moment to speak privately. Will you excuse us?"

John nodded, and then looked Mr. Holmes in the eyes, "John Watson, hello. "he said, extending a hand. "I'm his friend, and his doctor. If you have any questions about what they tell you, I will be happy to put your mind at ease."

Mr. Holmes shook John's hand, a tender smile on his face, "Oh, hello, John. I already know you quite well through my boys."

The Holmes men stepped aside, and John drew a shaky breath, and stepped into the kitchen light, allowing the matronly swarm to settle down on him. Lestrade smiled at him apologetically, almost, as he was bombarded with questions about the "holiday". Ah, and normally he'd give anything for this much attention from the females...

A few minutes later, the three men stepped into the room again. Mr. Holmes had been crying, though he had carefully concealed the most tell-tale signs. Mycroft's expression was impossible to read, but he had a hand protectively on Sherlock's back, and asked him a question, the only part of which John heard was "plasters...need to reapply?"

Sherlock looked up, and his eyes met John's. His face was a mask of stone, save that he was a little "green around the gills." He smiled, as if trying to reassure John, and went and sat on the settee, wincing at the effort it took to propel himself that far.

Sat there in deafening silence, whilst his loved ones chattered on, so out of body, and out of mind, and strangely back in his own home just in time for Christmas dinner, as if this were a dream.

John's eyes rested on him, silently swearing to guide his every step through this painful journey. The homecoming had really just begun with being relocated in this place...

Mr. Holmes came up to him then, swallowing his bile, and whatever pride may lay in his old roots.

"So, I would like to get to know Doctor Watson more personally. Step out to the back lot with me?"

"Sure."

It took an act of God to take worried eyes off of Sherlock, who was currently listening to something Molly was saying, with a child-like grin on her face. She was also showing off a new engagement ring ,and Sherlock was appraising it (and secretly all it's previous owners...though he'd learned not to say such a horrible thing aloud to Molly Hooper)...

When they got outside, Mr. Holmes turned about to face John, stiff upper lip almost wavering.

"My son...was tortured?"

John swallowed.

Oh, yes, a long road home yet...

"Yes..." he answered plainly, and began to brace himself for a series of medical questions like, "what are long term effects?" , "will he be in greatly prolonged pain?"...

And the worst,

"Is he going to die?"

"No, no the most of the recovery will be in his mind..."

Mr. Holmes shook his head, "My own child..." he whispered, horrified...

John laid a strong hand on his shoulder, and they stared into the night.

"Least he's got you..." says Mr. Holmes out of the blue yonder.

John smiled ,slowly.

"Yes. Yes, he does. Always..."


	4. Chapter 3: Let's Get Down to Business

**Chapter 3: Let's Get Down to Business~**

During the events of relocating to London, Sherlock had been doing well. Well enough for someone who had been so brutally tortured as himself, anyway. John was feeling very hopeful when Lestrade called them for their first case as the official Detective Consulting, and Consulting's Assistant (D.C., and C.A.)

It was a serial killer. Sherlock used to love those. The criminal being so clever, it made for a more intriguing case.

But having been where he had been, seen what he had seen, done what he had done, there was no enthusiasm this night. John was somewhat concerned, when they rolled up in cab, to an old laundry room in, ironically, Brixton, the place of their very first crime scene together.

He got out of the cab, and swooped around in one dramatic circle, looking at everything. Stepped under the caution tape, and before a policeman could start his drawling complaint of "Oi, you, you have no right to be 'ere ,mate!" He flashed a badge that's very paper looked as though it had cost at least a quarter of last years revenue, and was enough to make the bobby's eyes go wide.

"Oh, right, Detective...This ,err...,way."

He looked at John snidely, as if telling him to stay put, before Sherlock snapped, "And my assistant."

John flashed an equally fancy badge, and the bobby squinted, "Consulting's Assistant"?

"New office in the British government; tonight we're testing out how well it works. We may well be the only two that ever exist, but even so, you and your peers should familiarize yourselves with the initialisms , "D.C.", and "C.A." and how they relate uniquely to New Scotland Yard...Now..."Sherlock leaned over him, brows drawn up as if in question, and then, lifted the tape for John.

The two of them breezed into the laundry room, and looked around ,expressions cold, at the murder that was...everywhere.

"Oh ,thank God, you're here, Sherlock!" Lestrade cried. "This one is utterly BAFFLING."

"No ,it's not." Sherlock said, voice quiet.

"Sorry?" John asked, having himself never seen the like.

"There are far greater evils in the world than ever reach as far as London, Lestrade. Save tonight one of them has. Now I could tell you all the gory details, but I think you have enough gore on your hands. You are looking for a killer that trains apes to do his assassinations to avoid his DNA traces being on the crime scene ( I have made note that you haven't taken any fingerprints, and that there are traces of hair, not human, on the fabric of the blood-stained laundry) . He would need to plant the apes in the City, but would need a convenient place to draw them all together, apes being pack animals. Trace the pack back to one mutual location, and you will find the killer's hiding place. My guess, judging by this muddy, not-human footprint, the silt of which is river silt, mixed with asphalt grains, you are looking for a building along the Thames, a large building, with various old outbuildings, and a parking lot where the gravel and pavement are starting to erode, thus passing the asphalt grit into the river's silt...And..."

He pulled out his magnifying glass, and knelt next to the footprint. He bowed close to it, and drew a deep breath.

"There are traces of red brick color, and the faint scent of lamp oil. It's most likely the clubhouse the street kids built behind the old boat house right before you reach the boat house itself has been sitting empty since I was a child, and the clubhouse wasn't very well constructed to begin with. A tiny building such as that, fallen into disrepair,...ideal place for psychopaths to linger..."

He stood up straight, and closed his magnifying glass.

All eyes were trained on him, mouths gaping.

Even John and Lestrade were utterly astonished, and they had been with him on his most difficult cases.

"How did you...piece that all together in under 3 minutes?" Lestrade asked ,at last, breaking the silence.

Sherlock stood fiddling with glass, eyes vacant. "I've seen it before." he said, looking up, face gone dark, and nodded.

"Well, I suppose that's it, then. Evening." he turned, with a dramatic swish of his coat, as if fleeing the scene.

John followed him, having questions, that he thought better of voicing.

"Hey, just so you know, that was AMAZING." he laughed, falling in stride with him. "Looks like you're back in business..."

"Ah..." Sherlock muttered, avoiding John's eyes.

"Everything alright?" John asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Noticed the way he flinched.

"Oh, I'm fine..." he said ,waving it off with a soft laugh. John nodded,

"You're remembering something..."

"Yeah."

"You don't have to tell me..."

"Probably better that I don't."

That would have been the end of that conversation. In fact, John had been thinking of asking Sherlock if he was hungry ,and before he could get the words out of his mouth, Sally Donovan was practically jogging their direction...


	5. Chapter 4: Let's Show Them

**Chapter 4: Let's Show Them~**

She slowed to just a trot, when at last they turned. Sherlock's expression visibly darkened, and John drew closer to him, out of a sort of protective instinct, and folded his arms.

"Hello, Freak." she said, stopping short.

"Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock said, flatly.

"So, not dead, yeah?"

"Not quite."

She smiled, like a witch given power to the world.

"Mmm, So ,how'd you do that, then? Convince the whole world you were dead? Made some of them mourn. Some of them celebrated. I celebrated..."

"I'm sure you did." Sherlock nodded, "Extensively. Suppose the party's over now?"

"Bloody well right it is! Let's go, Sherlock!" John growled, taking Sherlock's arm in his firm grip.

Sally followed them. "But you didn't answer my question. How'd you do it? Sure it was exciting. And what did you do for all those years you were gone, then?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. John turned, and snapped,

" Enough. Will you -just-go away!"

"I'm only curious. Doesn't he like to show and tell? Isn't that what you get off on, Freak?"

"Sherlock?" John asked, noticing how tensely he'd drawn up.

He slowly turned.

"Really, don't you have somewhere else you have to be?!" John snapped, patience siphoned from him now.

She pulled a little watch-on-chain-out of her shirt pocket, and opened it,

" Nope. Got all night."

By now a small crowd had gathered.

"Well, _we _don't. Come on...Sherlock?"

Sherlock had frozen, eyes practically zeroing in on the watch.

"What? You like it? I bought it on line. Good for hypnotism..."she smiled, nastily, as if she knew she was on to something.

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed ,defensively.

"John!" he gasped suddenly.

"I'm here!" John gasped, suddenly horrified.

Sherlock stumbled in a circle, "You have to get out of here, John. Get out of here..."he wailed, and stumbled in a circle.

The people started to waver, afraid.

"Oi, what's he on about?" Sally asked, voice crackling like thorns into the anguish.

John immediately realized what was going on.

Sherlock was having violent re-experience symptoms of PTSD.

"Everybody on the ground." Sherlock shouted to the police officers gathered. They stared in confusion.

"Everybody on the ground!" he shouted, like a drill sergeant giving command.

"Why?" Anderson asked , nervously.

"Do as he says!" John wailed.

Slowly the police officers got down on hands and knees.

Just then Lestrade came out of the laundry room.

"Oi, Sherlock, what the bloody -? "

"GET ON THE GROUND!" Sherlock shouted, and John, voice agonized, wailed from behind him:

"Greg, listen, he's having an episode...of PTSD. Just do what he says, and let me talk him down."

Greg felt his stomach clench as if filled with liquid iron, but did as he was told.

Sherlock stood staring at them all, or appeared to be staring at them all. And then he said,in a voice loud enough that everyone could hear.

"John."

"I'm here, Sherlock."

"You need to get out of here...Moran,...he's come...he's come for me."

"Sherlock." John said firmly, "I'm not leaving you."

Sherlock looked up at heaven, repeating the words Moran had said, when he'd loaded him in the back of a truck out of Serbia,

"Tick tock,tick tock, It's time to go,John! Time for you to go...Home... for me to go...Go there..."

His face crumbled in horror, and his eyes filled with a strange light.

"Back. Back _there. _Anywhere they can make my blood flow, bright red. You know, it's actually pretty, it's dripping down my face. Down through my hair, slicks my hair down, gets hard, now it's stuck, and it hurts more, when he grabs me by my scalp, hard tug! And it's all over me, like red paint, dripping down my chest, I can't , I can't even feel the lacerations yet, cuts are so clean...John."

John has very slowly ,very cautiously crept up behind him, and laced his arms around his waist, laying his face gently on one of his shoulders.

"Right here..."he mutters.

"Did it to protect you. They were gonna kill you, had snipers, would have fired, if I hadn't jumped...Then that belt, nearly cut me in half. I'm bleeding, John! Always bleeding. It's stupid, how much I need his squishy red to be INSIDE of me. Without it, the world swims. I swim too because I'm laying in a puddle of it. In a basement, and voices, I think, sounds like Russian? No Serbian, I'm in Serbia. But a little girl brings me water. Mercy-the little girl's name was...-what happened to her ,John?"

He spins violently about, and grabs John by the shoulders, shaking him.

"Is she...alright?"

John smiles, "She's fine...She's ok, she made it. They all made it."

"No...not all of them." Sherlock's eyes shift.

"NOT ALL OF THEM!"

He spins about, "FOR GOD'S SAKES,GET ON THE GROUND. DON'T YOU PEOPLE KNOW A TRAIN IS FALLING AT OVER 100 MILES AN HOUR, RIGHT DOWN UPON OUR HEADS?! PROPELLED THERE,ON PURPOSELY CUT FROM WHERE IT CRASHED IN THE TREES! OH LOOK, 3 MORE! BUT IF YOU GET ON THE GROUND..."he's out of breath, from shouting..."Low...on the ground...You'll be low enough to miss it, when it passes over us. You just might live through the shrapnel...I did. A piece of it struck me in the throat; I almost died! But I held it in, until I could drag myself to town. And then they helped me...They didn't deserve to die...for helping me..."

"Alone...Is what I am...Alone...keeps people safe...from me..." he gasps, hands going to his neck, where the injury still was, if only in his mind.

He bolts off into the night.


	6. Chapter 5: What a Good Man You Are

**Chapter 5: What a Good Man You Are~**

He wakes up on his own settee, to hear faintly the voices of his father, and John talking.

It's the week after Christmas, and his parents were scheduled to head home tomorrow morning.

If his dad is here tonight, then they must have a reason to delay their plans.

He concludes that he is the reason ,when he finds he can't even sit up straight, so he just lays there letting the room swirl like tiny dancers made in lights and shadows, and the ball room is his eyes.

* * *

"I really must thank you for saving him tonight...Any number of things could have happened to him, running about, out of his head like that."

John smiles, "It's really no trouble...I'd never have forgiven myself if..."He can't say it. But he thinks.

_If I lost him again...I think it would kill me. Actually, I KNOW that it would._

"You ...are like a brother to him ,John." says Sherlock's father, with a kind smile on his wizened old face.

"You know, once upon a time, I had three boys. I won't tell you what happened to the third, but it was a very bad situation. There will always be a hole ,a gaping emptiness in our lives, that he left.

He is some of the reason the boys have deleted all sentiment. Have taken the notion that caring is a disadvantage...I thought they should be broken forever...and for years I had hoped something would come along, to somewhat fill the emptiness, knowing that their brother couldn't be replaced...

But then, heaven sent them another brother, I think. And though it can't replace the one they lost, I think the love they have for the one they found far exceeds said loss. They love you, each in his own way, and Sherlock,...I don't think he has ever loved another human being so much as he does you, Doctor Watson. In fact, I'm certain he has not..."

John has to swallow tears, as the kind old man says, "Welcome to my family, John. I'm very glad you're here now."

"Yeah, yeah me too.", he whispers, letting a huff. They stand in silence for a long moment.

"His mother...needs to know."John says, out of the blue. "I know...he doesn't want her to, but she needs to. His brother needs to know ,too. Because...I've lived this, I know ...he may be this way...for a very long time. He...may never...get over it,at all... And...he will only get worse, if he thinks, he has to hide it from them..."

"How's this sound? You deal with Mycroft, and I'll deal with Mum." Mr. Holmes winked, with a smile.

John smiled, "Deal." he pulled his mobile out. "I'll do it now."

"And I'll go check on Sherlock..."says Dad, and slips into the living room.

* * *

Sherlock concludes that he must have fallen asleep again, when he feels his Dad's hand on his forehead, and snaps awake, a little too violently.

"Easy, fighter..." Dad laughs, using a childhood nickname he'd given his youngest son. "It's just me..."

"Dad?" he croaks, and tries to sit up.

"Oi , no, no. Lay still. You've already broken the wounds on your back open again, let's not break the ones on your chest open too..."

Sherlock lays back, and closes his eyes. " You were going to Brighton in the morning. To visit Aunt Lucinda before you headed home."

"Oh, between you and me, I'd rather eat the belly of a pig than go to Aunt Lucinda's."

Sherlock smiles.

"Have I ever told you that I'm proud of you?"

Sherlock's eyes fly open again, perplexed.

"I haven't given you much reason?"

"No, you've given me hundreds of reasons...Even when you were on drugs...I was proud of the brilliant man you were then, proud of the brilliant man you could one day become when you overcame that obstacle. And you did, and I was only even more proud then..."

Sherlock shakes his head, but his dad caresses his face. "I have loved you since the moment I heard your first cries in the hospital. I will love you no less, no matter how many times you Fall. And I will love you until one of us breathes our last...I hope it's me first."

Having just hung up with Mycroft, who is on his way over, John steps into the room, and hears the exchange between the elder Holmes and his son.

A pause had filled the air, and Sherlock breathed to protest, when his Dad cut him off:

"I'm not going to tell your mother..."

"Good..."

"No, Sherlock... WE are going to tell your mother..."

"But, I...It's..."

"No...You may be a genius,...And I'm just a boring, ordinary old man...but Sherlock...I'm still your father. And I still know what's best for my family."

"John..."Sherlock groans, as the young doctor comes into the room.

"Yeah, uh, you're gonna be a bit not happy with me, but that was actually my idea..."

"Really, John?"

"Sherlock...she needs to know." John mutters, sitting down in his chair, watching the Holmesian debate going on.

Silence.

"She,...may not want to see me any more..."

Silence as the other two men are perplexed by the very idea of this.

"She's your mother..."John whispered.

"She is...I was...her son...But now...I'm..."

He looks down at himself, where blood is beginning to well up through the button up white shirt he's wearing.

"I'm...not...ok." he says ,softly, horrified that he is admitting weakness to two of the strongest men he knows.

The third strongest being Mycroft, who has just stepped in the room, at that exact moment.

"We know that. But you are still _you." _Dad says. "And you...are a good man,..."

He whispers the last bit, and mutters, more to Mycroft than Sherlock, " I'll talk Mum down tonight, and let her come to visit in the morning."

"Good." Mycroft says simply.

Mr. Holmes bows over Sherlock then, and kisses him firmly between his eyes, making a swift and silent exit, very alike his two boys would do.

Mycroft comes, and stands over Sherlock, scrutinizing him...

"What to do about you, brother mine?" he says in a tired, sad voice...


	7. Chapter 6: Now For the Truth

**Chapter 6: Now For the Truth~**

"YOU ABSOLUTELY MUST DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT DONOVAN WOMAN ,MYCROFT!" Mrs. Holmes howled on her way out the door.

* * *

It was morning, the morning of the day that Sherlock's parents were going to leave. Mrs. Holmes had been allowed to see Sherlock before she left. He had told her in his own words what had happened.

Had taken both of her hands in his long slender ones.

"Mum?"

"Yes, dear?"

"My job isn't safe, you know that..."

"Yes, I do!"

"Mum...when I was gone... I had some serious...trouble. And it will take me a very long time mentally to recover from it."

"Trouble, what sort of trouble?"

"I was...tortured, mother."

"What?"

The room had grown shockingly quiet.

Sherlock didn't show his mother his wounds. He just nodded softly, ever so softly, not wanting to have the repeat reaction of the horrified look on his father's face when he'd unbuttoned his shirt for him.

He didn't want the repeat look of smothering, sickening horror on Mycroft's face.

He _really _didn't want to see that renewed look of horror, and understanding only a doctor can have on John's face.

And he had just noticed that Mrs. Hudson had come into the room.

"Oh God...my boy, my sweet little boy!" his mother howled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as his mother went off on a tangent, demanding for details, literally "flying off the handle" feeling terrible when she smashed a mug all over the floor.

Mrs. Hudson bent to clean it up, as she apologized wildly, and taking a measured breath, John began.

"Sherlock...has developed a serious case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." he said, simply, and both the old women looked up, faces perplexed.

"You,...you know what that is, right?"

"You have it too, John. Not so bad now, as before. But it's where your nightmares came from?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Of course, I know what it is!" Mrs. Holmes gasped,and cut Sherlock an angsty look. He smiled calmly at her,and said, deep voice almost too low to be distinguished from the white noise in the room:

"I had elected not to tell you...Mycroft ,for once, had agreed. But Dad and John thought you needed to know..."

"NOT TELL YOUR MOTHER?!" she howled.

"For the reason... that loud and flamboyant shows of emotion can only complicate the disorder..."Mycroft said ,measuredly.

"Oh...dear Lord...am I making it worse, dear?"

Sherlock looked too tired to react in any way, and just shook his head.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, clasping her hands. "If you need anything, anything at all! I won't mind helping...not a bit..."

Sherlock smiled, "I could always use your tea?"

She laughed, and went to make him some.

"Thank you!" he called, to her surprise.

He was most certainly different now. Still Sherlock...only different. It wasn't entirely a bad thing.

"You rest!" his mother cried. "And I'll be back within a fortnight to check up on you!-Mycroft, a word on our way to the door!"

She grabbed her older son by his arm, and marched him with her, demanding to know EVERYTHING.

His father rolled his eyes, "See...not so hard?"

"Have a...tolerable stay in Brighton."

"Thank you, son. Hope to see you soon. Get better ,alright?"

"I live with a doctor!"

John smiled, as Mr. Holmes left the room, slowly and dutifully following in his wife's footsteps as he heard her shouting about vengeance upon Sergeant Donovan for setting Sherlock off like that.

John smiled awkwardly,"You didn't show them off to her..."

"Oh, I'm not overly fond of showing them off to anyone( I know, not like me...) They will leave plenty enough scars..."

He sighed, and closed his eyes. John cleared his throat.

"I need to have a look at them."

"Please, John, I just endured a rigorous round of examinations at St. James..."

"Yeah, well I need to look."

Sherlock got suddenly defensive. "I'd prefer that you not..."

John frowned. "You've got to let me..."

"John..."

"Don't argue."

"John, no, really, please!"

Sherlock only said please when he was very, very desperate.

John shook his head. "No...Sorry...I'm afraid you're a little too weak and tired to resist me either...doesn't seem fair, does it?"

Sherlock was trying overly hard to keep his face straight.

John opened his shirt, and froze...

"There...there weren't...as many before..."he whispered, looking into Sherlock's eyes.

Trying very hard to conceal his angst, Sherlock swallowed.

"Well, maybe you just don't know the full extent of them yet..."

Mycroft came back in the room just then...

"Right..."John said, looking up at Mycroft.

They exchanged a glance and Sherlock understood without having to hear them speak.

They were going to go talk privately about what to do about him.

He held his breath, willing the bleeding to stop ,so John wouldn't catch on to what was _really _going on.


	8. Chapter 7: You Made Deals In The Dark

**Chapter 7: You Made Deals In The Dark~**

Sherlock waited till Mycroft and John were down the stairs, and well on their way to Speedy's, before he slipped his mobile out of his jacket pocket,and dialed Sally Donovan.

"Hello,Freak. Have to say that went real well. One more stunt like that,and the secret's out..."

"They think I have PTSD."

"Well, you do have PTSD...Only it's a little more complicated than that, isn't it? With Freaks like you it always is...You never calculated how strong the sense of danger could be ,did you?

Never thought you'd get off on fear so much. That you'd need it...to keep that miserable pet of yours safe..."

"St. James...Is that where all of our business will be?"

Sally smiles, sitting at a desk in New Scotland Yard, twisting a pencil till she grinds off the lead. Anderson eyes her ,suspiciously.

"Don't want Phillip and Greg catching wind of this, do we? Else we're both off the team..."

"No, you're off the team. First of all, I am an agent of the British government now, by law, and not just unofficially. And when I finally play the cards back into my hand, which I will, then I will bury you..."

She smiled. "Mmm, I don't really care if you do. You'd just better make this a good game for me, yeah?"

"Careful, Sally...Those that play with fire get burned...You may well be _roasted!"_

"YOU KILLED SEB!"

"Shh, keep your voice down, before all London hears you, never mind Phillip and Greg! I, on the other hand, did not kill Sebastian Moran. Your lover tormented me, brutally, in ways that even Satan himself would tuck tail and flee from, and...he couldn't live with himself afterwards...He blew his own brains out. I know, I was there. They splattered all over me..."

He can hear Sally near tears on the other line;

"I...I don't believe you. You said or did something, and Seb,...he had such a lover's heart!_ he took it into his beautiful soul, and it devoured him whole. And I will never forgive you ,Freak, not for surviving this War. You may have won,and Jim and Seb may have died in vain. You may have buried them, and a whole other boneyard full. But you might do well remembering that it was _I_ what buried you. And all I had to do was lie...and play the part of the loyal policewoman..."

"To give credit where it is deserved , admittedly, it did take me a while to pick up your scent. But what better way to ensure that the Consulting Criminal never be indisposed, than to have his best man's lover enlisted in the police force, and shoulder her way up the ranks, to being side by side the one Detective Inspector his arch enemy respects and trusts above all else? And poor fool believes you are his friend..."

"Oh, I'd gut him easy if I could. Already did in a way, didn't I? It killed him...you know. He blamed himself for everything. So did Anderson. Poor sod looked up to you, despite all he said. Any emotion I may have shown, was only to hide my great joy. I laughed behind my hand, and cried tears of joy. And drank myself stupid in celebration. And poor fools believed that I was guilty!"

"What better way to look innocent, than to be so self-condemning, my clever girl. See, I always knew you had a brain somewhere..."

"You really suck at flattery, Freak."

"Oh I know I do. Which is why I'm not flattering. You are an atrocious whore to the devil himself, and you repel me. Now answer the question, shall the Master of Ceremonies and I be meeting in St. James, or where?"

Sally smiled sickly on her end of the line. Anderson felt his blood go cold, knowing for a long time, something wasn't right with Sally.

"Train tunnels this time. We have so many more murders to "try on". You know, I'd never heard of the "Fashion Designer" before, when Jim and Seb were still alive, no thanks to you. He found me. Wanted me to smuggle him files of the very best methods of murders...It's funny, you solved all of the ones I managed to pull up. You gave such intricate detail... He was so inspired,-"think of the elegance we can give killing now! Every serial killer of the under-ground will want one of my mods!' he said. He calls you his Model. You are apparently ,to quote him , quite vogue amongst the Red-Handed League right now..."

Sherlock laughed bitterly, "Oh, that won't last long...But it won't matter, because then I will have sufficient evidence to land you all in front of a firing squad for your association with the Consulting Criminal."

"Is he really worth it, Sherlock?"

"Leave John Watson out of this..."

"But is he really worth all this _pain_ you live with EVERY DAY? You could just let us have him, he's the one we've wanted all along. Looks like a little guinea pig,and would be perfect guinea pig material."

"You will pry John Watson out of my protection, only when you have dismembered every sinew of my body from every bone."

"Meet us at 6. We just might do that."

"I can't wait!" Sherlock hissed.

He laid back wearily, trying to think of a distraction for getting John away from the flat...so he could slip off unnoticed.


	9. Chptr8: They'll Be Brought to the Light

**Chapter 8: They'll Be Brought To the Light~**

Mycroft and John sat at a table in Speedy's café, two large mugs of cocoa with marshmallows in front on them.

Mycroft clasped his hands, staring into the froth of his drink,the winter's chill visible through the window behind him,seeming to emanate from him.

John drew a shaky breath.

"Donovan." Mycroft said, slowly.

"I know...she's...I can't call her what I want to...Not that we're not both adults, there just isn't enough colorful language in English to describe her."

"She's always hated my brother, but to so ...purposefully beset him,...attack him,...revel in his episode...There is more than a bitter rivalry between them..."

"Yeah, that's obvious...*eherm* even to me..."

"We will have to get to the bottom of what is different about it from before...Or rather, what it was we didn't see before..."

"Do you think she had some kind of involvement with Moriarty,and that's why she made Sherlock look guilty?"

" A possibility, but one must always rely on facts before instincts...But I trust your instincts ,John...My brother has always trusted them as well..."

"I thought your brother only ever tolerated my in put because he loves me?"

Mycroft smiled."No...No, while love you he does...more than you are aware, I think...he also holds you in the utmost respect,and never forget that. For that reason I too ultimately respect your discernment."

"Good, because I have something to tell you...Something utterly...hair-raising..."

"With Sherlock how could it be anything less?"

"His wounds...weren't forced open again by exertion..."

Mycroft licks his lips. "I'm listening..."

"Mycroft...I think, Sherlock is still being tortured by some one.I don't know how, I don't know why...It seems very improbable since he's been with us most of the time he's been back. But there are signs of very clean cutting marks ,almost perfectly concealed by the forming scar tissue, almost hidden ,except, to be quite honest, I'm rather good at my job.A little too good, so my fellows in Afghanistan said. I never forget the look of a wound. The single bruises ,the bleeding, it's always right there, on the backside of my eyelids, always exactly the way I saw it. But I didn't see it initially the same way as I did about 20 minutes ago ,when I made him let me have a look. And I had to fight him too...which is normal, so I may not have thought anything about it...except rather than being irritated,he was defensive. Almost desperate...And..."he swallowed, the intensity of Mycroft's concentration almost unnerving him,

"He said something too...about how maybe I didn't know the full extent of his wounds yet. He likes to be dramatic...but this was almost..."

"Cryptic."

"Well, yeah..."

"Alluding to something you didn't wish to consider...not in your darkest dreams?"

"If he thinks he's gonna be able to keep a secret like that living with a bloody doctor ,he's really not as smart as all that."

"Oh,but you see, he _knows_ he can't keep it a secret, which is why he's so desperate to. That's my little brother for you, never knows when to let go of something. If he's most desperate for you not to find out, you are probably the reason why he must continue to experience the torture,and knows that if you know...you'll intervene, possibly to your own harm. So, it's obvious...he's painfully predictable at times ,I am afraid."

John swallowed, the thought of Sherlock _still_ being tortured , on his behalf, making his stomach so tight and sick,that a 9 pounder cannon couldn't even break the ice within it.

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Some of the War has followed us home, John. And Sherlock has made a deal with the Devil, in an attempt to trap him, and hang him with his own rope. The only problem is, my brother is not well. He might hang himself, like a proper Judas to his own cause, if he isn't careful..."

"So, what do we do?"

Mycroft swallowed, "We go by the facts. You have found data of a medical nature,and we have reason to believe Sergeant Donovan is playing foul. So, you will monitor his status very close and cautiously,and I will run background checks on Sally Donovan ,to the uttermost detail."

"And what do we do about Sherlock in the meantime? How do we keep him from doing whatever it is he is doing?"

Mycroft swallowed, "The hardest part is, we don't. Not until we know something for certain..."


	10. Chapter 9: If One Thing's For Certain

**Chapter 9: If One Things For Certain~**

Phillip Anderson didn't want to believe his ears.

He had heard every word of Donovan's conversation with Sherlock. Had heard her use the affectionate nickname "Freak" so he knew exactly who she was talking to.

Funny how she had always been able to look right through him. How she could be totally oblivious to his presence.. See him as her little 'boy toy', got what she wanted from him, and then completely 'deleted' him from her awareness , to borrow one of Sherlock's expressions.

It was even more ironic how he had allowed it to happen. How he had allowed her to play upon his feelings, and seduce him, even to the point of influencing him to go along with the sabotaging of Sherlock Holmes.

The man was innocent. What was even more impossible than being as clever as he certainly was, was being able to _fake _such genius, for so long a time. Looking back now, such and idea was absolutely -laughably-absurd.

Anderson decided within that hour that he had enough of Sherlock's blood on his hands.

If one thing was for certain, Phillip Anderson would NOT be making the same mistake twice.

So, face made of snow, hands shaking and feeling thin as autumn leaves, feverish as Indian summer, Anderson made for Greg's office.

"Oi, now, what's with you? You look like you've seen a ghost?"

"No..."he laughed in reply, smiling to try to calm himself. But his face twisted as if with palsy, and Greg sat up, saying ,low as a growl in his throat,

"Phil, you alright, mate?"

"No, I think...I may have evidence that Sergeant Donovan..." he swallows..."Is trying to bury one..."

"Come again?!" Greg asked, utterly confused.

Anderson licked his lips..."Sir,...I overheard a very troubling conversation over mobile between Sally Donovan and who I was to understand ,because she addressed him as "Freak", to be...Sherlock Holmes..."

Greg blinked, it still being flat-out weird, the thought of any one doing anything with Sherlock who,as of about 2 weeks ago, was dead and in the ground. He'd been certain, he'd visited said ground, put roses on the grave once, when John Watson had been too sick to go...

"Donovan didn't ever just chat with Sherlock before, not a proper conversation anyway. Donovan's part of the reason that he..." Greg swallowed, and closed his eyes, unable to finish that sentence.

"So what in God's name is she doing having a full-length conversation with him via mobile?!"

"Talking some kind of business ,sir. It didn't sound right..." and then Anderson relayed the message exactly as he'd heard it.

* * *

No sooner had the account left Anderson' s lips than did John Watson call Greg ,in as near a panic as a soldier comes.

"John?"

"MY GOD, GREG! SO HELP ME IF I DON'T END UP TEARING THE STREETS UP LIKE THREADS WITH MY BARE HANDS! HE'S GONE!"

"What?! Who's gone, John?!"

"I KNEW it...I knew by the look of the incisions in his wounds..."

"What wounds?! Who's gone, John?"

"Sherlock! He's gone. I think he climbed out the window! Making deals with the Devil again, so it seems. Trying to save me-as usual-ach dear God, HELP ME GOD, I'm supposed to be protecting him! It's supposed to be over now. You know, he was tortured. FOR 2 BLEEDING YEARS STRAIGHT! Trying to keep us at home, you, me, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly Hooper...all of us...safe from Moriarty's thugs. He's going to get himself killed, Greg! They've done things to him what would make Jack the Ripper blanch a Christmas white, and Satan cry like a little girl. They'll out do themselves one day. It won't be enough to watch him bleed a little. They'll bleed him bone dry..."

Greg's mouth had gone dry, like deserts on the dark side of the moon. He swallowed, looking at Anderson wide-eyed.

"John."

"Yeah."

"I think I've already got a lead..."

"It's Donovan isn't it? Mycroft and I thought as much."

"Sherlock and Sally have just had a mobile chat ,according to Anderson here. If we could get to the bottom of it...well, we'll probably figure out what the business was, and be able to bail Sherlock out of it."

"Things are never that easy. I'm going to look for him. Call me when you find something."

"What if he comes back to the flat before that?"

"We'll cover more ground if I'm out searching. I'll come back to the flat periodically to check and see if he came home. Can't alert Mrs. Hudson ,and Mycroft is already gone-though I texted him to run a full surveillance sweep."

"Sounds like we're already two steps of them...whoever they are."

"Don't count on it."


	11. Chapter 10: I'm On Your Side

**Chapter 10: I'm On Your Side~**

John stood at the flight of the stairs listening.

This had been the third time he had swung back by Baker Street to check there for Sherlock since he'd been searching for him.

He held his breath, realizing that for the first time in 2 years it had really hit home. He was alive.

He was home.

And then John had taken to his heels. Flying up the stairs, feeling as light as water colors, with the relief that he was there.

Sherlock jumped, standing with his head ducked in the refrigerator, looking for something to drink.

"Oh, hello. So, you're probably a bit...not happy with me...for going off on my own...I , ermm, had a last-minute case, while you were talking with Mycroft."

Sherlock would never forget ,not all the years of his life, the kind of chill that went through him at John's reaction to this.

He sailed across the room like a dark ship through ice-scabbed waters, dark look on his face gathering blackness, like the grey wisps of storm. Sherlock slammed the fridge, and nervously started to back away.

John swooped down on him like the falcon on the field mouse, and for the first time in his entire memory Sherlock felt truly helpless.

John had pressed him into the wall of their kitchen, careful not to slam him because he was wounded, but needing to cut him off.

Leaned into him, looking up into his eyes, looking so deep into his eyes that Sherlock felt like he were being cut open under the surgeon's scalpel, like lightning cuts the sea open to revel all the secrets in the Chasm of the Deep.

"I know about Donovan." John said, low in his throat.

Sherlock swallowed, "How much do you know?"

"The business call?"

There was deep, ghostly silence, and Sherlock swallowed, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say. How he was going to explain...

"Don't say a word." John said suddenly , and Sherlock's eyes lit up ,confused.

John was out of breath, looking as if he could fall to the floor comatose for the rest of time, eyes fluttering. He swallowed, and beginning very carefully he said,"

"Whatever else has happened, whatever happens now...if it counts for anything...I'm on...your side ,Sherlock..."

Silence,...a waiting silence...Sherlock drew a shaky breath, and John shook his head, not done.

"Let me help you. Put the past behind us...put everything behind us. Let me in. I can help, and I want to. Just come clean to me..."

A calm entreaty, promising the same warm companionship they had all those lifetimes before, once upon a time, when they lived here together on Baker Street. Same kind smile, forgiving everything.

Sherlock smiled back, but felt his chest aching...

"I...need to keep you in the dark...to keep you safe..."

"No you don't...We're safer together. Friends protect people."

This time those last three words were said with more understanding, knowing that was exactly what Sherlock had always been trying to do. Promising to do the same, if he would only let him.

Sherlock shivered, "Would you look at me, John. I'm afraid!" he laughed, bitterly. "Afraid to let you in, afraid to let you help...Afraid because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and as torment goes Sally Donovan-the lover of Sebastian Moran since their teens, and the Red-Handed League, as the street gang they used to belong to are called, have actually, dare I say, perfected Sebastian's art, and out done him..."

John blinked, as if punched in the gut..."Out done...As in the past tense? What...what did they do to you?"

He reached, suddenly almost violent, to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, and Sherlock grabbed him by his wrists...

" They want to kill you. Sever your head, and put it in the Queen's bed... It's a protest John, against the Afghan war, and you are the soldier they picked expressly, because of your involvement with me, because I am the one who brought down Moriarty!"

John fights with him, "Show me what they did..."

"I made a deal with the Devil that the gang could try the torments leading up to your death out on me first. It would take a series of experiments, and a span of many months, and if I survived, which I am determined to, then that would give me more than enough time to bust up the gang. I already have enough evidence to take down most of them. Save for Sally Donovan, I will have to dig very deep for her, and prove that she is the one who hired the Circus Assasins...The problem is, usually I take the evidence and find the criminal. I have the criminal first this time,and must sift through evidence the press has tampered with,to get sufficient evidence for a group hanging...John?!"

John is leaning into him heavily, softly crying now.

Looked up,and seized him by both sides of his face.

"You...are an idiot, though, aren't you?"

"What?"

"It's safer to involve me where I know what's going on, than to leave me in the dark, and thus involve me, and I get killed trying to help you 'cause I'm clueless, huh? Because either way, I will not stop until you are safe again. They can cut my head off, they can cut my arms, and my legs, and every last bloody one of my fingers and toes into little pieces, and torture me from now until Kingdom Come...I will not rest until you are safe again, I swear to God!"

Sherlock looked like he'd be sick, but finally he nodded almost imperceptibly, and John swept him up into a titan embrace...careful not to hold him too tight, not wanting to hurt him.

He stepped back, when he felt Sherlock's fingers reach up and start undoing the buttons on the front of his shirt...

He stumbled, and crashed into the table, and knocked a tea pot off and broke it to bits, to see the wounds beneath the fabric.

Sherlock stood holding the fabric open, and off the wounds that were bleeding now, and can't be described for the ghoulish nature of his abuse.

"We never stop do we...Safety has a price ,John, and I still have an agreement..."

John staired , panting, trying not to surrender to unconscious.

"No, no you don't. 'Cause I've just gone to War!"

He nodded, and beckoned with a shaking hand, to Sherlock who's face visibly frosted ,truly frightened at the thought of John in harms way.

"And he won't be marching alone." said Mycroft from the door way, in the company of Lestrade, Anderson,and several other gawking policemen...


	12. Chapter 11: And Now That You Know

**Chapter 11: And Now That You Know~**

Sherlock was sitting awkwardly in the client's chair, whilst Mycroft sat in the one he usually occupied,and John sat in his usual spot. Greg and Anderson pulled up seats of their own, one sitting on Sherlock's right hand and the other on his left.

"So, what to do about this, brother mine?" asked Mycroft, scrutinizing his younger brother much the same way that Sherlock would scrutinize a client.

Sherlock took one deep breath.

One deep breath was all it took, to let John know. Memories of Serbia, of being forced to leave him being beaten to a pulp chained to that post, whilst he smuggled the fugitive children to safety, came crashing down on him like a meteor shower.

" You...are going to go through with your agreement, and we are supposed to catch her in the act..." he stated, not as a question.

All eyes turned on him in sudden horror that he could even SUGGEST such a thing.

All eyes except for Sherlock's. Instead he smiled a calm, sad smile.

" It will be inarguable evidence, and save a lot of trouble with the court case..."

Mycroft's mouth gaped.

"Out of the question."

"Mycroft..."

"You want me to just look the other way, just let you be lead to a death unknown to the bowels of Hell, like some stray dog?"

Sherlock swallowed, "No..." he said, and before he could be interrupted ,he looked John in the eyes ,with a chillingly intense gaze.

"No,I want you to be on stand by whilst I walk _willingly _to my death, and intercept it in a clean and concise manner. But I must walk to my death,and be ready to die, in case plans are sabotaged, because the life of John Watson is in jeopardy if you don't, and I will not allow even the nth of a percentage of risk when it comes to said sacred life."

The room had gone so ice-quiet, it made the Grave seem suddenly vibrant with the sound of music.

John stood slowly up, shaking his head.

Sherlock's expression hardened, along with his will to follow through.

And now ,without the faintest stain of the shadow of doubt, John knew .

Sherlock Holmes ,in the end, was a _good _man, and utterly selfless at the core, despite the impulsive traits that indicate selfishness on the surface.

"We can't allow her to harm you. We could put John into protective custody, or .."Greg cut in, eyes twisting in horror. Anderson could say nothing at all.

"Like hell!" John gasped, voice suddenly sharp and heated like the flame off the back of a jet engine.

Mycroft shook his head. " You...you are right, little brother...Dare I say, you are right. This _is _our best solution to the problem of prosecuting a police sergeant of such admirable reputation. And you are also being the absolute of honest when you say that you will not allow an nth of degree of risk to John Watson. Which is why I will elect to do this your way..."

The others were speechless, utterly disbelieving that Mycroft was consenting to one of Sherlock's more reckless plans.

"But...I must make modifications to your plan..."

"Which will be?"

"You will only surrender your life to any form of torment upon my order."

Sherlock sniffed, "You would NEVER give such an order."

Mycroft grit his teeth,

"Mmmmm...but there is an nth of the degree of risk in that, though, isn't there? I'm sorry ,Sherlock, belay that.

You shall only surrender your life to any form of torment by order of Captain Watson."

Sherlock's jaw dropped , feeling helpless, "He'd shoot himself in the head first!"

John gasped audibly, "I'd shoot SHERLOCK in the head first!" he howled, face gone white.

"Exactly my point. This guarantees that you will not do anything stupid..." Mycroft grinned,toothily.

"Well...HOW pray tell, are you going to catch her in the act, if she is not actually in the act!" Sherlock rasped.

Mycroft smiled, "Dearest little brother...All these years of violent torment, of being on the run, of being hunted and hated, and being the one to kill, and watch others being killed...You have forgotten negotiations haven't you? The boy my brother, the genius mind that could have been a philosopher, but deigned to be detective...lost to the Machine that is War...Don't become just another part of that Machine, Sherlock. It's time for you to come home from that now, to leave that behind you. You are _clever, _brother mine! It is now a time for you to remember to be clever. This is not the time for the East Wind to take you, though it takes us all in the end...

This is the time for Epiphany's Wind, a chance for new life to be breathed into you, for new ink to wet the pages of the story of your birth. ..It is time for you to breathe again, and be free, and to be healed. And you shall, for we shall have it no other way, shall we Doctor Watson?"

John is in tears now, Mycroft's words, and Sherlock's willingness having completely undone him.

"No we won't. Stop it now, Sherlock...You don't have to die for me...You don't have to die AT ALL."

Sherlock's face broke into a smile, and tears filled his eyes, and he let one hysteric laugh crack through the stone surface of his stoic demeanor.

And in that moment winter ended, and Sherlock Holmes was safe at last. Knowing that he was loved.

"No...I don't have to die. As long as I have the lot of you!" he shook his head, "Stupid! Of course, I see it now..."

He leaped up, hair standing up ecstatically the plan of their ransom suddenly dawning on him.

"Oh yes, it's...TOO easy! How could I have ever stooped to _his _complex level of stupidity! She made bargains with me, now I shall make a bargain with her...false of I will need to employ the use of some of your magic tricks, brother mine. And I will most definitely need your proactive help, John...if you're up for it..."

John swallowed the stone of his 2 year agony, in one great gulp, feeling like he were sailing through the ceiling, as ,so suddenly as it came, it was gone, gone with Epiphany's Wind.

"Oh GOD yes!"


	13. Chapter 12: My Dark Side

**Chapter 12: My Dark Side**

John felt his spirits rising with the forklift, that shoveled thousands of stacks of counterfeit money into the old factory on the Thames, where Moriarty performed the nearly successful "Hansel and Gretel" murder, and where Donovan and Company had chosen to meet Sherlock for their little meeting.

"Well, I must say Mycroft you have quite a large sum of counterfeit money..." John laughed.

Mycroft smiled, "Easy to have fake bills printed for the purposes of a rather large false ransom."

In the end, Sherlock's genius plan had been for Mycroft to contact Donovan, with a confession that he had been spying on his little brother, discovered their agreement, and in exchange for the lives of Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson he was prepared to pay an astronomical ransom, to be delivered to the same sight as the meeting was scheduled. Donovan had agreed, on one condition. Sherlock would be the one to deliver the money himself. Sherlock would come and beg for his life before her, on bended knee. And if he did not, the Red Handed League would arrange for a little accident in the train tunnels, and blow Parliament to Hell.

"And in the end it just goes to show that she really isn't as smart as she likes to think she is..."Sherlock practically giggled. "This trap is too obvious to be obvious!"

He came striding up to them, hair in a mess, coat blowing in the wind from the open doors, an almost giddy smile on his it was so strange to see him alive, and almost-ok, that the two older men froze, staring at him.

"Well not everybody is as sociopathic as you two. Most people expect brothers to go stupid over each other, especially the little ones, and so it is perfectly sensible, in most people's minds, that Mycroft would actually be desperate to save your life, and thus _really _be offering an actual ransom to save you...And who can pass up 50 million quid, right?"

"When the ink is scarcely dry on it, no one."

"As easy as catching mice." Mycroft blew it off. "Oh ,for once, I will enjoy watching you theatrics, brother mine."

"You know my methods..."Sherlock winked.

"Yes, which is ,of course, why I furnished you with several cans of petroleum."

"Petroleum?" John asked, brows shooting up.

"For theatrics, John." Sherlock smiled.

"For attracting the attention of London's entire fire department, and the media." Mycroft finished.

"But I thought the press was the last thing we wanted involved!" John gasped.

"Oh, no, if they print anything on Sherlock, they will be charged with treason. But I have tipped off several reporters that there is going to be a rather large scandal at this factory tonight, and they are NOT going to want to miss it..."

John had turned to listen to Mycroft, and did not notice until he heard the can clink on the floor, what Sherlock was doing.

"Alright, the table is set, I've even added the sauce and the trimmings, and as soon as she gets here ,we'll light candles, ladies and gentlemen!"

Greg Lestrade, Phillip Anderson, a whole team of police officers as witnesses, and a SWAT team provided by Mycroft were standing as witnesses.

And a few moments later when Sally Donovan and the Red Handed League entered the building, they were greeted by Sherlock Holmes, dark coat flowing in the rain-laced wind from the door, smoke rolling out from under said long dark garment,as a mountain of false bills blazed behind him.

Sally Donovan opened her mouth, and closed it, a brow raised, and folded her arms, walking forward slowly with a smug smile on her face.

"Did you really think it was going to be this easy, Freak?"

" Did you really think I would beg you?"

"You know, I am impressed, actually. You really are as clever as all that, though, aren't you? Huge ransom, off the beaten path location...could have fooled me..."

"That's because for you it's all too easy. You're a bully, and that's what bullies do. Expect they will get what they want. But your mistake was thinking that I can be bullied. Your mistake was to think that I actually could be subdued by your petty little games with me...You may have outdone your lover, by terms of technicality. But for me it was always routine...Just play dead." he pretended to pout, and the fire licked up behind him, and for one moment, John saw that Sherlock could be truly dark, almost appearing evil.

Sally smiled, " I knew I couldn't beat you, that you would outsmart me. Of course you would, you didn't really even have to try, you're a Freak, and that's what Freaks do, things that humans shouldn't be able to. But you aren't human, are you? You're on the side of the angels... You're the Angel of Hell, and you have no soul to lose. Which is why I never played this Game to win. Which is why I never set out to burn the heart from you, I was smarter than Jim and Seb, I knew you didn't have one. As for the torture I put you through, I knew you weren't going to feel it. Probably enjoyed it in your own sick way. I did that for me, liked watching you bleed, feeling your blood in my hands, funny it was, since you have no heart. No , Freak, your mistake, once again, is wanting everything and everyone to be just as clever as you. I only wanted revenge, and I have gotten it. Can I be blamed for wanting my cake and to eat it too? 50 million quid is tempting to anybody...and certainly when you've already finished the job."

"Mmm...and what job was that? Go on, you're dying to know what it's like. To show off...to have gotten a one up on me...You'd like to know what it would be like, to be more than human...or maybe less."

Sally smiled, wickedly. "Why don't you tell them, Sherlock? All about the Study of Torment? "Tyrannology" isn't that what Seb called it? There in that Lab, you gave him all the data he needed to form a study, you allowed yourself to be subjected to every form of torment that Sebastian Moran could dream of, and every last letter of Moriarty's magic book. Congratulations, for the life of one man, of John Watson, you provided Sebastian Moran with enough research to take that practice to the battle field, to the schoolyard, to the little neighborhoods, and streets, and alleys...to the world, Sherlock. You brought the study of torment to the world, and one day you won't be enough. One day you'll be looking down at the bodies of men, women, and children...and it will be _you_ that put them there. Because you see, I got my revenge, Sherlock Holmes. I sold those files to the world...To the KGB. To the Jihadists...To the cartel in South America. To anyone really with a computer, and a thirst for blood. And now the world knows who to blame for the wrath it shall endure, when torture becomes a sport. Because unlike heartless freaks like you, human beings have hearts and souls and minds that can be touched by fear and pain and flames. And they will do anything to save their skins. So in the end I am Pandora, and I just opened a whole box of trouble..."

She snickered, and John felt like he was smothering, thinking that in the end Moriarty and his Red Handed League had won.

But Sherlock laughed, a laughter that rolled like thunder in the smoke, and would have made Satan fall over dead from fear. Even Mycroft looked set on edge by his brother's darkness, in that moment.

"A school girl! A school girl, telling naughty little secrets!...Oh, but what you didn't know was that ,in the end, when Sebastian had blown his brains out, and I was left thus alone..."he is laughing now, and almost can't talk.

"I didn't have anywhere to go. No rush when the only place is from out of the frying pan, and into the fire, am I right? No trouble...So bored as I am, for bleeding is boring, I thought I should have some fun. And so, I finally got to the bottom of that little bit of computer code, that bit that didn't exist? Not a computer code, a computer virus. A way to crash the system, should anyone try to double cross him, and so eliminate the Network's resources. Basically Jim Moriarty's insurance that he would never be the victim of mutiny, eh? A way to guarantee the loyalty of those minions that did his inside jobs, of course, whether they loved or hated it they _depended _on him...Well, he wasn't going to use it anymore, and most of his Network was dead. But still there's always somebody ready to take up the torch, and Moriarty was himself the Alexander of crime. 'Give it to the strong', or shall "the violent take it by force'? There were still so many bad relationships that Moriarty had ended, or had ended for him, ...you and these boys here, the Woman, the Ghost People...your friend the "Fashion Designer" , this fellow here, who thought to make trends in torment, and fashion designer scars for me?...only to name a few...

Some one ,somewhere, who had a belly full of the Boss, was bound to get bored. And me...mmm, I've always been bored. So , I decided to use the Code for myself, and declare _myself _the Successor." he smiles wickedly, as Donovan goes starch white. John's jaw dropped.

"But I turned out to be no good king. No lion-heart, no knight-in-white-satin...am I. A cruel master, your angel in Hell, and perhaps someday I will inherit the throne, should Hades retire. I sent out the Virus..."

Donovan started to shake her head wildly, knowing that she'd lost.

"You're correct, very good, Sergeant. Not only did I corrupt the files containing all of the research I allowed Sebastian to compile, using me as his lab rat,but I also erased years worth of blackmail, and account information, and ,oh, practically every other important document pertaining to the business of crime, including those things which constitute as protection. I needn't see you _all_ hanged, though I would love for that...

I need only stand back and watch you slaughter each other. And so ,if I am guilty of anything, then I have cleansed the world in fire, and wiped the score board clean. If I am to be Damned, it matters not, seeing as I have no soul..."

It was then that Sherlock fell silent, aware suddenly that he had attracted an entire congregation of police, fire-fighters, news reporters, agents, the Chief Superintendent, Mycroft and John.

He let smoke waft from his nostrils.

"And now that my Work is done, I shall retire to my Darkness. Go now, and die Sally Donovan. I'll see you in Hell..."

He turned on his heel, never having meant any words more than he did right then. And truly believing that the Abyss was his final destination.

Save that Heaven was swift at his heels...

"Sherlock!" John called, following him out into the night...


	14. Chapter 13: You Choose Me Anyway?

**Chapter 13: You Choose Me Anyway? **

"Hey!" John called.

The glare of the fire lit his way, as Sherlock, swift as the raven through clouds of storm, navigated his way down the seam of the Thames, long dark coat flickering like flame behind him, hasting as if fleeing a crime.

"Wait!"

John was to Sherlock in a few great sprinting leaps, taking his shoulder in one firm hand.

Was surprised by the look of horror on his face, by the dull redness in his eyes, that he could see from the glare of the now burning building.

"Where are you going?" John asked, feeling his throat grow tight.

Sherlock swallowed, "I suppose some punishment awaits me, John. I don't want you to get entangled in all of that. I think we should agree to part ways..."

John felt like he had been hit in the chest with an axe. Sherlock bowed his head...

"I posed as the "new" consulting criminal for a while, John. Do you understand? From my "lair", still trapped inside Moran's torture lab with the dead man's body...I still had a job to do.

So I pretended to have claimed Moriarty's throne. And began to orchestrate crime, but not to the end that crimes would be committed. I orchestrated it in ways that two opposing groups of criminals would catch each other in the act of the same heist. I played upon their hate, upon their greed. I played chess with human lives, John, I sat back and I watched as they killed each other by droves. I let the Network finish eliminating itself for me..."

He smiled grimly, actual tears building in his eyes, though only threatening...

"I have oceans worth of blood on my hands ,John. And never mind that it's the blood of murderers and thieves, I am still the one. I shall have to give an accounting for all the things I have done, allowed to be done...I allowed Sebastian to experiment torture on me, and had I not found the Virus program on his computer, I would have furnished the world with research for new methods of human suffering...

Everything I have done, has been to keep you safe from the evil that is in the world. But don't you see, John? No, of course you don't, you are blissfully ignorant... a beautifully simple mind, a single light in an utterly dark world... I _am _the darkness that is in this world ,John. Darkness follows my every step. As long as you are rid of me...you are safe..."

John swallowed, "What happened to, 'As long as I have you lot, I don't have to die'...?"

Sherlock smiled sadly, "But that's just it! Why don't you just _see?! _You are the only one that can save me, John. Save my life, save my soul...And I don't deserve to be saved..."

John suddenly smiled bitterly, " Yeah, maybe you don't. Maybe I'm an idiot...but... I still believe in you. I choose you ,anyway."

Sherlock looks like he's been slapped as hard as can be across his face. "What?"

John laughed, "Sherlock...if you honestly think some little thing like darkness is going to keep me away from you, you are really bloody stupid."

Sherlock shook his head, brows twisted painfully. John laid both hands on his shoulders, gave him one firm shake.

"Yea though I walk through the shadow of the Angel of Death, I will not listen to what people say. People talk, and that's the most that they can do. But even if they decide you are guilty, which they won't, because you have done _nothing _wrong, you are a Detective and an agent of the British government, getting justice was your job...but...Even if they did find you guilty, and they decided you should die...Well,I'm not going to leave you. I _know _you, and... they're wrong. In the end you are a _good_ man, and no one will be able to convince me otherwise, not even if that means I have to stand in front of a firing squad too..."

And in the end Sherlock Holmes was human too, and at last shed tears, for all that had gone wrong, voice still somehow steady.

"You STILL choose me?"

John laughed, and for once Sherlock was the one feeling stupid,and John was the one being devilishly clever.

"Of course I do,you idiot! Of course, I do!"

He pulled him into his arms then,and let him cry into his shoulder, at first softly,and then in silent wracking sobs.

As violent waves of memory came over him, all the years of his darkness, of his terrible war, having ended at last, when John Watson had called him home.

And just then Her Majesty the Queen was marching towards them, hand in hand with Mycroft, who was helping her hobble on heels over the debris of the smoking factory,and leading her through the maze of fire trucks,and police cars to where the two men her saviours stood.


	15. Chapter 14: Don't Be a Fool

**Chapter 14 : Don't Be a Fool~**

Mycroft cleared his throat loudly,and Sherlock and John stood abruptly straight ,stumbling out of each other's embrace,and awkwardly swaying on their feet, Sherlock swiping at his tears, utterly humiliated.

For once Mycroft wasn't gloating over him like he were superior, but was actually smiling apologetically, like he truly understood.

And when Sherlock and John saw who was with Mycroft they both crowed like roosters facing the Judgement Morn, and stood at a crisp attention.

The Queen paused a moment taking the boys in. And then she said:

" I have been reliably informed that the both of you intercepted a plot to threaten my life. A soldier's head (I am to understand would be yours, John Watson) was to be left in my bed, a radical protest to the Afghan conflict, and a threat of harm to me. Which,waking to find a head as lovely as your own in my bed linens would send me into cardiac arrest ,Doctor,and so I suppose that would be as good as murder."

John blushed,just basically having been called "lovely" by the Queen of England. The Queen cleared her throat,and said:

"Sherlock Holmes, I will only ask you once, to kneel."

Sherlock looked utterly confused, for once in his life.

"You're being knighted, brother mine." Mycroft groaned, blinking, lips held utterly flat, completely appalled by Sherlock's lack of sense when it came to anything ceremonial.

"I...but...I?"

The Queen smiled, "Come now, I shouldn't like to have your knees broken. You will be made a knight, whether you wish to be or not. Consider it the punishment you think you deserve, if you like. I don't know whatever for...you've done nothing wrong."

John was laughing hysterically. He never thought he would be assisting Sherlock to his knees, with a clean sweep of his foot across the back of his legs.

Sherlock looked up, something like shame on his face, as the same huge group that had witnessed his confession a moment ago, now stood to witness his knighthood. Greg was shaking his head,and jostling Anderson saying, "Admit it, admit it! You knew he was good, you knew he was good under all that rubbish he'd say."

Mycroft brandished a sword that John just now realized he had belted around his waist. This must have been recent, it had not been there before. He stood for a moment, grinning like a child,as if he meant to swipe off Sherlock's head, but everyone that knew Mycroft knew that he was roiling over with pride that _his _brother had finally made enough of himself to earn such a title.

The Queen winked at Sherlock, which caused him to actually blush,and his brows to flutter, utterly unable to compute. John imagine that his motherboard was about to steam and blow a fuse, when the Queen touched the sword to either of his shoulders.

"From henceforth, you will be known, by those who still have the privilege to know you, as Sir Sherlock Holmes, Detective Consulting."

John was laughing,and clapping, and mocking, saying something like, "I told you it would happen someday ,you fool, you nasty git, and it serves you right!"

Sherlock was fuming at him, about to say something snarky,when in a calm voice the Queen said,

"Now, it's your turn, John."

John blanched. And Sherlock smirked like the fox that caught the canary, and pulled John forward, shoving him to hid knees, one firm hand on top of his head.

In late night quarrels over lack of milk, and lack of logic of the future, Sherlock would never cease from abusing the lengthy title of "Sir Captain John Hamich Watson, M.D. ,Consulting Assistant"...


	16. Chapter 15: I Will Always Choose You

**Chapter 15: I Will Always Choose You~**

And so it was, that, the journey from the Grave and back came to an end, with a visit to a slim black stone.

"Seems sort of strange...you know...leaving it up. Since you aren't lying under it..."John said, as the winter wind brushed its fingers affectionately over white-roses Molly laid there for Christmas, to keep the ruse convincing.

Sherlock's face was expressionless, as he studied his name, printed gold on black.

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

It said nothing else. No testament to his brilliance, his legacy as a warrior against crime. Certainly no "Detective Consulting" or "Sir." Those titles had come to him to late, rewards of his After Life.

"In a sense, I am there." he pointed down. "Or ,at least, the man before the Fall is."

John breathed a sigh. The journey to recovery,and coming back to Life was far from over. PTSD is no easy beast to live with, and after the rather alarming encounter with Sally Donovan (who was happily ever after shut away in prison by this time) his symptoms had fully materialized to proving he had the disorder indeed, startled into a fit on one occasion by something as domestic as a trolley horn...

" In a sense, I am there with you. Followed you into the Dark..." said John ,clearing his throat.

Sherlock turned to him, and said nothing. Shed no tears, showed no remorse for all the evil that had transpired, nor sorrow for what could have been, nor fear for days to come. It was as if the world was over now, and he smiled, a grateful smile, only half-way on his face, and he met John's gaze for a long time, and neither looked away, or spoke.

"Do you know...what today is?" John ventured after a while.

"Saturday, the Sabbath, the end of the week? "

John laughed. "January 6th. The Epiphany, by Catholic reckoning. And your birthday..."

Sherlock looked back at his stone awkwardly. "Do...dead people,...still have birthdays?"

John laughed. "Well, for you, I think, I shall make an exception. Which is why I bought you something."

One of Sherlock's brows curled. A present? For him? He could not calculate this. John laughed at his friend, that's brain never stopped scrolling out digits.

John pulled it out of his shirt pocket, and placed it in Sherlock's hand. At first his eyes grew wide with horror ,as he felt the cool ,round metal shape, and thought back to watches...

"I wouldn't do that to you..."John says softly,with a sad smile.

Sherlock opened his hand, and there was a tiny compass on a chain.

"Why do I need this?"

"Consider it sentiment if you like, but in a practical sense, I am very tired of you getting lost."

Sherlock shook his head, not understanding.

John smiled, ever patient saint he was.

"When you have an episode, it might help to look at it,and see the directions it points when you're walking. The sense of direction might give you a sense of control again, and then you just might be able to master it."

Sherlock laughed, "Brilliant, John. Wizard,even, _really _, if I'm to say it."

John shrugged. A silence fell, and Sherlock slipped the chain around his neck,and let the little gold pendant -shaped compass fall in place, like a button, on top of his silky blue scarf.

"Thank you..."

John was studying Sherlock ,intently.

A wind blew over them, like the breath of God. The breath of Epiphany, promising something After.

"You...you're really here. It's not an illusion, some sentimental dream I had in my grief. You are REALLY here! God Himself gave you back to me, as if you were driven by the Wind, steered my way. You are here, it is a FACT proven by its sheer impossibility, - as true as the existence of God and His angels, unbelievable though it may seem! And if so, if you really...really are here, really ARE _here _ to be a whole year older...You could live again. You _will _live again. I promise."

"So you still choose me, _really?"_

John laughed, realizing that for both of them, this was an utterly impossible situation.

"I always choose you."

Sherlock's half smile was made whole.

And as if signaling the start of something new, his phone rang.

"Detective Consulting?..." There was silence then, and a smirk of mischief.

"Ah, a murder for my birthday, Gavin? How thoughtful! I'll be right on my way, to have a look!"

He hung up, and suddenly looked at John excitedly, as if he were ready to live again.

"Well, come on. The game's afoot."

And ,in that moment, John remembered what it was like, running with the Wind...

**~The End~**


End file.
